


Those Who Favor Fire

by speculate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Gen, Tattoos, and isaac is blunt and helpful as always, scott and stiles are bros to the max, scott is very asthmatic and dorky, well- SORT of a werewolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speculate/pseuds/speculate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is, honestly, just Stiles’s luck that the first and only time he ever gets his friends to agree to take one of his shortcuts is the time he gets them lost. In which Stiles gets his friends stuck in a magical forest that includes, but is not limited to, creepy uncle tattoo artists, demon-wolves seeking said tattoos, slightly nicer tattoo artists, age-old mythology, and sentient hedges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enough Pressure Applied

**Author's Note:**

> this is an idea for an original story i've had for ages but never had the means to write, so i thought i'd give it a revival by turning it into a teen wolf au. let's see where that gets me.

It is, honestly, just Stiles’s luck that the first and only time he ever gets his friends to agree to take one of his shortcuts is the time he gets them lost. He’s pitying himself and trying to ignore the other four’s whining as he meanders aimlessly through the roads of Beacon Hills Preserve when they run out of gas. Which, honestly, is just Stiles’s luck.

“Please tell me you see a rest stop up ahead,” Lydia is saying, “and that’s why you’ve stopped. _Please_ tell me you didn’t just run out of gas.”

Stiles winces and checks his phone, and perfect. No bars. “Uh, you might wanna get your change of shoes out of the trunk,” he says, preparing himself for the smack Lydia is definitely about to give him. She snaps, “Oh, there is no way. There is _no way_ I’m walking through these woods in any conditions, high heels or not. No way. You’ll have to carry me.”

Scott looks incredulous from the backseat. “Dude, you really ran out of gas?” he says, and Isaac, always helpful, adds, “How did you not notice that we were almost empty?”

Lydia scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Oh, he must not have accounted for getting us lost for hours in the _middle of the freaking forest_.”

“About right,” Stiles mutters as he gets out of the driver’s seat and starts rifling around in the trunk for some flashlights. He’s glad he at least has the sense to keep those in there, but he figures that’s just the intuition of being a cop’s son. He wonders if his dad ever ran out of gas in the middle of the forest with a car full of whiny teenagers, and then decides no, that has never happened to his dad because his dad is _smart_.

Allison rounds the baby blue jeep to help Stiles. She bumps his hip and says, “Don’t worry about those guys, they’re just being them. I know you’ll get us out of here,” and Stiles appreciates her optimism, he really does, but he can’t bring himself to agree with her. He smiles weakly and gives her the flashlight with the newest batteries. God, his dad is going to be so pissed if he isn’t back for dinner. He grabs the flats he made Lydia bring (“Lydia, there’s no way you’re going mini-golfing in high heels,”) and tosses them into the backseat through the window. They land in Isaac’s lap and Isaac gives him a Look.

Lydia snatches the flats from Isaac and pulls them on, grumbling under her breath the whole way. From what Stiles catches, something about _I can walk just fine_ , and _just don’t want to._

Isaac glances her way and Stiles can practically read his mind. He’s thinking that he doesn’t want to spend hours wandering around in the woods with Lydia’s whining as musical accompaniment. Isaac says, “Hey, I don’t want to spend hours wandering around the woods with Lydia’s whining as musical accompaniment, so what do you guys think of Scott, Stiles, and I going ahead a mile or two just to see if there’s anything there and if not we’ll head back and we can all go out together.” Stiles thinks it’s a good idea and nods his approval. No use listening to Lydia complaining for hours if they don’t have to. At the very least they can shave a few hours off of it. Stiles loves Lydia, seriously, he worshipped the ground she walked on for years before she became the close friend she is now, but she gives him headaches like no one else. Also he knows she has very small, delicate feet and he winces at the thought of her stepping on branches and rocks. He says, “Isaac has a point,” and nods vehemently.

Allison crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re being sexist. We can walk too, you know. We’re not delicate little flowers like you might think.”

Scott gives her doe-eyes and says, “Allison, you’re _my_ little flower,” with that dreamy, I-love-Allison-way-too-much-and-it-gives-Stiles-angina smile. Allison grins a little and crosses her arms. “Aww, Scott,” she says, and they get all mushy behind the jeep, and Stiles is gonna vomit and this is so not the time because it’s getting darker by the minute and Stiles would like to get out of these woods alive, goddammit, and that’s not gonna happen if they’re all slaughtered by a serial killing hobo living in a tree while Scott and Allison get frisky. The others glance at him, and Isaac is giggling, and Stiles realizes his anxious, frustrated inner monologue might not have been so _inner_. He huffs and crosses his arms and sticks to his guns, saying, “I’m right, and you all know it.” Lydia opens her mouth to (almost definitely) snark something about how Stiles is the one who got them into this situation in the first place, so Stiles owns up to it before she gets anything out. He tells them that he’s going to get them out of here in one piece (well, five separate pieces, ideally, but the idea still stands) and gives Allison the keys to the jeep. Allison and Scott kiss and it’s gross and the girls promise to lock the jeep and the guys promise to hurry back.

They haven’t been walking along the road for an hour when Scott shakes his inhaler and takes a puff. He wheezes, “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything, guys, maybe we should just go back.”

Isaac is staring intently at his phone as they walk and Stiles wonders if he’ll trip on a rock or something. Probably not. Isaac’s pretty coordinated. “Still no service,” Isaac mumbles, kicking at a rock that Stiles probably would have tripped over.

“Just a little further,” Stiles presses. If they have to go back, he doesn’t know what they’d do. They’ve been walking for an hour and they’d been driving for hours in the woods before that and hadn’t seen a single car. If they all start screaming he doubts anyone would hear them. No one lives in the preserve, that’s kind of what makes it a preserve. Sanctuaries for animal life and all that. He turns towards the expanse of trees to his right and thinks, _speaking of animal life_ , because that sure as hell looks like a massive, hulking wolf, staring at them with eyes that scream death! Murder! Kill the humans! and it’s not a second before Stiles is yelling, “ _Run!”_ and he, Scott, and Isaac are sprinting into the woods as the wolf tears after them.

The thing about the woods is that there are a lot of trees and the thing about running is that it’s a hell of a lot easier when there are no trees. Isaac is ahead of Stiles and Scott is lagging behind as they weave their ways through the trees, trying to lose the wolf, which is definitely still behind them, snarling. Stiles can hear Scott wheezing and worries. He hopes to death that the adrenaline will keep Scott from having an asthma attack when he almost smacks straight into a tree and trips.

He _trips_.

Scott is running past him, looking down with terrified eyes, and Stiles yells, “Keep going, Scotty!” as he tries to scramble to his feet. But the wolf-monster-thing had already caught up and pins him to the ground and Stiles is preparing himself to die, thinking, I had a good run, and, oh man, who’s going to take care of my dad? but all the wolf does is sniff him and Stiles is thinking, oh god, just get it over with, squeezing his eyes tight shut and waiting for the end as the wolf’s breath fans over his face. Stiles would probably be thinking about how it smells horrible, like death and blood, if the situation wasn’t so dire. It lingers above him for another few seconds before darting off into the shadow leaving Stiles breathless and panicky.

He pushes himself up to his knees and Scott is at his side in an instant, dropping down to his level. “Are you okay, oh my god, did it hurt you, where does it hurt,” he rushes, checking all over Stiles for blood or other bodily fluids. Stiles pushes him away a little and breathes, “’m okay, ‘m okay,” and tries to come up with any reason why the wolf didn’t tear him to pieces.

He comes up with nothing.


	2. Something Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, Scott, and Isaac get into even deeper shit (and this time it's totally Scott's fault, okay).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly shorter than the typical chapter, but only because there's the bulk of the mythology here.

After Scott uses his inhaler generously (and gives Stiles a puff or two as well) they decide to trudge on into the thick. They have no idea which way they’d come from and making camp seems like a horrible idea (that is, more horrible than continuing into the woods with absolutely no sense of direction) so they pick themselves up and keep going, Scott gripping to Isaac’s shirt like a baby. Stiles doesn’t blame him. He can’t exactly deny that Isaac is the clearly the strongest of them right now and he sort of wants to cling to Isaac’s other side, but he has a smidgen more dignity than Scott does. He might, though, be walking a little closer to Isaac than he usually would.

They don’t talk much. Scott is jumpy and thinks he hears or sees something every few minutes and Stiles makes a joke about the boy who cried wolf but other than that they say very little. It’s probably been a half hour when Scott says, “Okay, I definitely see something that way,” and points with the hand that’s not attached to Isaac.

“You probably don’t,” Isaac says tersely, but Stiles squints and adds, “No, I think I see a light too.” He tells himself not to get excited, it’s probably nothing, the hallucinations are starting to settle in, no big deal, but as they get closer it’s becomes obvious that yes, that’s a small cabin in the distance.

They pick up their pace gratuitously.

The cabin is modest; small, made mostly of logs, windowless. It’s covered with vines and plant life that doesn’t look native to the woods even to Stiles, who isn’t exactly a botanist. There’s a light on inside.

The three glance at each other and Stiles walks up to the door and lifts his hand to knock. He looks back at Scott and Isaac who nod encouragingly. He’s just about to make contact with the wood when one of the vines definitely visibly seriously actually _moves_. Not with the wind or any bullshit like that, but moves as if it’s sentient, and Stiles isn’t totally on par with that.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Scott whines, pulling his jacket around him, and didn’t they leave the girls in the car to _avoid_ the whining? “I’m cold, c’mon, just knock.”

Stiles nods and swallows a frog in his throat and decides that the vines are totally just his imagination. He’s hungry and tired and almost just died via wolf. So he knocks and is barely retracting his hand when the door swings open.

Inside the cabin is a man, dressed plainly, probably in his mid thirties. He smiles and there’s something about him that Stiles immediately doesn’t like. “Oh, hello,” he grins, widening the doorway. “Can I help you kids? Would you like to come inside?”

Scott says, “Hell yes,” and pushes Stiles inside.

They’re sitting at a little kitchen table not long after that, drinking some sort of tea that the man—who introduced himself as Peter Hale—made for them. It tastes herbal and Stiles has never really liked tea. Scott is exuberantly recounting the tale of Stiles and The Big Bad Wolf with hands flying and inhaler at the ready. Isaac nods every now and then to show his enthusiasm.

Peter looks at Stiles with that ever-present debonair smile still plastered onto his face. Stiles thinks Peter’s goatee is dumb and tries to put his finger on exactly what it is about Peter that gives him the willies before deciding that the answer is, indeed, everything.

“Stiles, that is quite the story,” Peter says. “Why do you think it was that the wolf left you unharmed?”

Into his tea, Stiles grumbles, “Dunno.”

Isaac rearranges the scarf around his neck. “Peter, you live here, don’t you? Have you never seen anything like that?”

Peter smiles dashingly. “Oh, I didn’t say that,” he purrs. In an instant, before Stiles has half a chance to process it, the thick vines that wallpaper the inside of Peter’s cabin whip off the walls and wrap around the boys’ torsos like snakes. Scott screams and their teacups smash to the floor as the chairs they were sitting in are slammed back against the wall and more vines lash out to trap them, roping them in until Stiles can barely breathe, never mind _move_. He yells, “ _Let us go!_ ” and vows to never again go against his instinct because oh my god, he is always right, except when it comes to shortcuts.

Peter surveys the three like livestock, pacing in front of them. “Boys, I do apologize, you must be very confused,” he says. “Allow me to explain.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of that awful herbal tea and Stiles feels a lecture coming on.

“Centuries ago, long before your time, there was an ancient art known as Inkbinding,” Peter begins dramatically. “Certain families were blessed with the gift to perform this art, the Hales being one of those families. Inkbinders would give two people a matching mark—a sort of tattoo—that would link them in the afterlife. These tattoos were easy to receive and extremely popular among people because it would assure that loved ones would be together in the afterlife. A beautiful art, tethering two souls.” Peter grits his teeth and turns to a workbench at the other side of the cabin, begins to fiddle with some of the things there.

“But the Keepers of the Afterlife got upset with these bonded couples disrupting the system of death,” Peter continues, voice tight and angry. “So they rained their wrath down on the living, and those who were Inkbound were killed, their tattoos sliced off, separated in death. Inkbinding was outlawed everywhere in fear that the Keepers may grow angry once more. But some, of course, continued giving these tattoos in secret. People like me and my family; _well_ —” he scoffs and bring his fist down upon the table, shaking it and clanking glass jars together. “Those who weren’t killed, that is, which was really just myself and my nephew, but him…” Peter shakes his head. “He isn’t dedicated to the craft, even now. I’ve heard that I have a couple of nieces alive also, but I haven’t seen them.”

He turns around to face them, and in his hand is obviously some sort of tattooing needle, and Stiles’s breath hitches in fear. Beside him, Scott wheezes and the vines tighten around Isaac, who is writhing around and yelling. A vine lashes out and gags him. Peter huffs and goes on.

“Anyway, these people who continued giving the tattoos in secret were found, cursed with immortality by the Keepers, and sentenced to live their eternal lives in misery, trapped within the boundaries of these woods,” he says, idling towards Stiles, filling a compartment in the handle of the needle with thick black ink. He shakes his head and chuckles a little. “Apparently, the Keepers did this rather than kill us because they didn’t want us outlaws tainting their afterlife. As if someone this handsome could taint anything, right?” He smiles as if they’re sharing a joke. Stiles _sneers_. “Many, many years later, Beacon Hills formed around our woods, and those unfortunate enough to venture inside never come out the same— or, more often, never come out at all.” He grins like he’s telling a ghost story and Stiles has never been so scared in his life.

With an air of finality, Peter says, “Inside the woods, us immortal ink artists continue our craft. We live inside these safe-houses,” he pauses to gesture his cabin, “like my humble abode here. These cabins can’t be entered by anything inhuman, which keeps me safe from the wolf out there.” He seems to suppress a shiver but a smile curls onto his lips. “But the wolf still needs to eat. It was trapped here by the Keepers, who knew the artists would continue our craft—whether for love of the craft, or spite, or both…” He cleans the needle idly and looks at the boys hungrily. “They knew that we would tattoo anyone we can get our hands on, and they still don’t want the binding tattoos in their afterlife. So they crafted the wolf, a creature born in hell itself, which lives with the singular purpose of tearing the Inkbinding tattoos off those who had them— whether the cost be their death or not.”

He turns to Stiles and snarls, “ _That’s_ why the wolf didn’t attack you. You weren’t Inkbound. That’s what you’ve gotten yourselves into, boys. You’re in my hell. And I’m going to make it hell for you, too.”

Peter takes a deep breath and collects himself. “Now, I’m going to say that these two”—he gestures to Scott and Stiles with a finger— “are the closest, correct? Bestest friends?” He notices Scott blanch and knows he’s right, smirking. “Ah, I guessed right. I’m very intuitive that way. You know, I’ve always preferred binding friends rather than lovers. Love can be so fickle, can’t it? But friendship… that’s forever.”

“Alright, now is not the time to show your support for the Spice Girls,” Stiles snaps. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck in here for eternity—sucks, seriously, dude—but please, we’re begging you, just let us go. We’re just kids, man, we—”

He is promptly shut up by a vine, and Peter sneers, “Oh no, I am not letting this opportunity slip through my fingers. You’ll keep the wolf at bay for _years_. I’ll be able to go out and hunt and gather without worrying so much. A well-fed wolf is much more pacified than a hungry one.”

He takes a small bag, filled with a yellowish dust, from the workbench. He sprinkles it over the needle and it begins to _buzz_. He moves to Scott, who’s shaking like a leaf, and Stiles spits the vine out of his mouth best he can and screams, “ _Get away from him!”_

Peter glances sidelong at Stiles and says, “Alright, you can go first,” and suddenly the needle is on his arm and it hurts like nothing Stiles has ever felt or been able to imagine and he’s screaming, _screaming_ —

He passes out, but he’s sure the needle doesn’t stop, because he feels it even in his dreams.


End file.
